


Violent Delights

by VivatRex



Series: Wishful Sinful [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Demon Dean Winchester, Drowley Smut, Episode: s09e22 Stairway to Heaven, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivatRex/pseuds/VivatRex
Summary: Everyone else sees Dean's mental state as a downward spiral, a descent into madness.But Crowley sees it for what it truly is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes here I am with a oneshot that is not nearly long enough to make anyone happy, but if it's any consolation I've got a lot more in mind for this series, so...please still love me? xo

Everyone knew that Dean was changing. No one was blind enough to _not_ ; even Moose and Kitten had given up any wishful thinking a long time ago. The Mark, day by day, night by night, increased its hold on Dean, creeping into his soul, his heart, latching with claws and taking, taking, _taking_.

To everyone else, it was a downward spiral, a descent into madness and damnation.

But Crowley saw it for what it truly was.

A _becoming._

He had heard tales, rumors, innuendo spread around at demonic punch socials and the like, about Cain. About what had happened to him, when he'd tried to escape Lucifer's control on his own. How Cain had discovered that no, the Mark does not let go so easily, if at all.

The story goes, Cain took his life, and instead of closing his eyes for the last time, he opened them - he opened them, and they were black, black as the soul he'd surrendered for the sake of his brother's life.

It was only a matter of time.

And Crowley could see the darkness dripping in more than any of the others, more than precious Sammy or dear Castiel, because Dean didn't hide from him. There was no brave face, there was no sunny optimism. There was no faking it.

Crowley, in the latest hours of the night when Sam had gone to sleep and the bunker lie still, a silent humming beast, that was when the real Dean came out. That was Dean allowed himself to truly be _seen_.

Slammed against the wall by hands that had become too strong too fast, or pinned underneath the seething length of his body, Crowley knew Dean like no one else.

They didn't talk about their... _encounter_...after Abaddon's demise. No. Not a word; in Dean's mind it had not happened at all, Crowley was sure. The intimacy, the tenderness, a strange and fragile thing that he had never felt before, not in three hundred plus years of both mortal and immortal existence. He’d felt a connection, unmistakable, deep, and pulsing with life. Not just lust, not just a desire for closeness. Something stronger.

Crowley knew that Dean had felt it as well; the human was piss-poor at disguising such emotions, though he knew Dean would like to think differently.

Perhaps it was all better left buried. Dean wasn't the only one who had left himself vulnerable. That night had scared Crowley more than Hell ever could, even for all the pleasure (and something more, something unnameable) that it brought.

Nevertheless, the one night Dean had allowed Crowley to take him had been erased into oblivion, replaced by these nights with the new Dean. Replaced by the Dean that was _becoming._

“Fuck!”

“Shut up. _Shut up_.” Dean pounded into him relentlessly, losing polish and rhythm, gripping Crowley by the shoulders and leaving deep, dark bruises in their place, bruises to match the collage of black, green, and blue scattered over the rest of his meat suit.

He could’ve healed them, disappeared them with a thought, a simple push of energy.

But he didn’t. Because he liked it. He _liked_ being marked.

(He wasn't Dean's, he was beholden to nobody and nothing. But sometimes, he thought maybe being owned by Dean Winchester wouldn't be the worst fate in the world.)

Nails bit into the skin of his throat, and tightening hands soon followed. Dean’s lips collided with his, and a second later, he tasted blood for the umpteenth time that night, iron and sulfur splashing against his tongue as Dean’s teeth ripped into the flesh of his lips.

He didn’t know whether Dean bit simply because the urge was there, or because he’d developed a taste for demon blood. Maybe both. He didn’t care to know, at the moment, painfully aroused and desperate for release as he was.

These last few meetings of theirs, in the middle of the night, Dean had always led, always topped. Always controlled him. And that was not something Crowley wanted to allow. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that they’d reached the point of no return. They’d reached the point where Dean was stronger than him. Frankenstein’s monster held all the power, now.

But goddamn, what a beautiful monster he was.

Dean’s mouth, and teeth, moved to Crowley’s throat, digging in hard. Crowley groaned, hand gripping the back of Dean’s neck, and he could only hope that he could match the hunter mark for mark.

“Isn’t it funny, where we’ve landed? If I recall, this all started with you wanting to save me...now, if anything, you‘re the one who needs saving, my darling.”

Dean slammed him so hard against the bed frame Crowley saw stars for a moment. “Shut. The hell. Up,” he snapped out, and Crowley wished he could make out Dean’s face, but the hunter had also made a habit of turning the lights out, whenever Crowley would appear in the middle of the night (more often than not after receiving a simple text of, “Come over,” from Dean.)

 _The best and worst of us happens in the dark,_ Crowley thought to himself in a daze.

He could hear and feel Dean reaching the end of his rope, felt the human’s body tremble and tremor beneath him, heard the broken gasp of his breathing.

“Let go,” Crowley rasped out the order, and Dean, ever defiant, held on for a few more dear moments before it became too much.

Dean collapsed against him, panting, body loose and slick with sweat. As per usual, Crowley finished himself off, as Dean had become overwhelmingly selfish in the mutual satisfaction department of late.

Psh. Typical demon. Or almost-demon, anyway.

With a snap of his fingers, the two of them were both clean of various fluids. He’d left the blood on Dean’s teeth and lips, however. Crowley liked to taste his own blood when his mouth met the hunter’s. Which is precisely why he leaned over at that moment and kissed Dean, hand coming up to card through the human’s hair.

Dean was still trembling. “I hate you,” he said thickly.

Crowley just smiled. “I know.”

“I hate what you made me.”

“Dean, Dean...” Crowley tsked at him. “Had you not been desperate to be this all along, you wouldn’t have agreed to take the Mark in the first place.” He moved so his lips rested against the hunter’s forehead. “I know that it feels as if you’re out of control now, like the Mark is making you sick, burning you from the inside out, but it will get better. Soon enough, you’ll have all the control. I promise.”

Dean withdrew from him ”What do you mean?”

Crowley was still smiling, even though he knew Dean couldn’t see him. “Don’t worry your head about it, love.”

Dean let the subject drop. With a sigh, he retreated from Crowley, sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped and defeated. “Why do you let me do that to you? Don’t you have any fucking respect for yourself?”

“Every Friday night,” Crowley chimed.

“It’s Tuesday night.”

“Whatever. I’m a demon of wide and varied tastes. The role reversal isn’t a comfort zone, perhaps, but...” He leaned forward, chin resting on Dean’s shoulder. “Maybe I like this side of you.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spat out.

“Ready to go again already?” Crowley’s hand crept around his hip, but Dean elbowed him off.

“Get out of here. I gotta get up, get a shower.” It was approaching five in the morning, according to the digital clock on Dean’s night stand. “We’re supposed to go meet Cas later. He’s got some kind of issue with the angels he needs help with.”

“Sounds boring.” Crowley retreated. With another snap of his fingers, the lights in the room burst into life, and Crowley was once more dressed in his suit. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Dean looked up at him. No, the human did not have as many marks as Crowley did. Dean’s eyes had taken on a haunted quality, dark and tired. Circles hung under his eyes, and Crowley could make out the outline of his ribs. He looked exhausted, hungry, defeated.

Almost as if the Mark really was sucking the life out of him.

 _Give it time,_ Crowley forced himself to remember. _It’s coming. Any day now, if the stories are true._

The Mark wasn't sucking the life out of Dean. No, quite the opposite. It was _bringing_ life. A new kind of life.

“Quit staring at me, and get out of here,” Dean demanded, looking away.

Crowley wasn’t one to obey orders, so he scooped down, took Dean by the jaw, and kissed him firmly on the lips. Dean resisted for a moment, then gave in. When Crowley retreated, Dean still wasn’t looking at him.

He missed that. The eye contact. But maybe that would change once their eyes were truly the same.

“Same time tomorrow?” Crowley asked, low and rough.

Dean stayed resolutely silent...but he nodded. He always did.

Crowley smirked. “Good.”

With that, he disappeared.


End file.
